I sat on the icy banks of the Neva River, bundled up in a thick, worn coat, my eyes fixed on the faint glow of the city lights across the water.

It was a chilly winter evening in St. 

My grandmother, Babushka, sat beside me, her eyes twinkling with a knowing glint as she told the same story she’d told me a thousand times before about our family’s history.

She spoke of our great-great-grandfather, a brave Cossack who fought in the Napoleonic Wars, and how our ancestors had always been known for their unwavering courage and loyalty.

As the snowfall grew heavier, Babushka finished her tale and handed me a small, intricately carved wooden box, passing on the family treasured stories and traditions to me, her proud descendant.